


The Importance of Being Father

by a_xmasmurder



Series: The Importance of Being Father 'Verse [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Enemy to friend, Falling In Love, Friend to Lover, Gen, Guilt, James Bond Has Feelings, James Bond has PTSD, Lying to protect, M/M, Married Couple, Multi, Other, Polyamory, Q Has PTSD, Relationship Negotiation, Secrets, Sudden family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 23:07:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17886836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: James doesn't do partners. This is a known fact. But when he is saddled with the "new guy", he finds out that the word partner could mean so much more.





	The Importance of Being Father

“Long one?”

Bond cracked open one eye and glared at the man standing off to one side. Brilliant. It was Tanner. “You could say.” He groaned, pushing himself back into a proper sitting posture on the over-engineered office chair. “And am I to take your presence here as a sign there will be another long one?”

The nondescript black folder clenched in one of Tanner’s hands spoke more than his next words. “You may take it that way, yes. M requires your presence at your earliest convenience.” He raked eyes over Bond’s current predicament, taking in half-filled in forms and a thick hunting blade pinning more forms to the desk. “I’ll let him know you’ll be up straight away.”

“It’s that hopeless?” 

“Most agents don’t kill the paperwork out of enthusiasm, Bond.”

“There was plenty of enthusiasm involved, I assure you.” Bond brushed off his suit and stood to his full height.

“Perhaps it was pointed in the wrong direction?”

“Altogether the right direction, rather. I hate paperwork. The file, Tanner?” Bond held his hand out, and Tanner deposited the folder with a quick snap and a grin. Bond returned the grin and stalked through the bullpen to the door. By the time he wondered what the strangely out of place smile on Tanner’s face meant, it was too late to turn around and ask. 

 

-)(-

 

Now that he was here, he felt he should have asked. Not that Tanner would have told him a damn thing, but Bond was very good at retrieving information. He would have done just about anything for Tanner to warn him about this. 

M, it seemed, had thought it time he deserved a teammate. 

James Bond stared at M for a few moments, letting every ounce of his irritation with the situation being presented show in his expression. M seemed unimpressed with the display, which irritated him further. He wasn’t sure what he’s done to require this level of punishment, but he wasn’t going to take it meekly. “Sir.” He sucked in a breath. “I work best alone.”

“As I am well aware, Agent Bond.”

Beside Bond, relaxing back into the plush leather chair that mirrored Bond’s, sat the cause of the tension in the room. The younger agent’s face showed his apparent amusement at the farce. Bond’s blood simmered, but he didn’t grace the boy next to him with so much as a glance. “Sir, allow me to rephrase. I work alone.” 

“You’ve worked on a team before just fine.” M, the smug bastard, leaned back in his own high-back chair as if he wasn’t about to thrust a knife into Bond’s back. Or shoulder. 

Bond’s tongue soured as he raised an eyebrow. “As you may recall, the last attempt to place me on a ‘team’ didn’t end well.” The other agent’s head tilted up, just enough of a movement to let Bond know he was paying attention. But where a fool might have opened his mouth to defend himself, perhaps a quip about being a better shot than Moneypenny that would end their proposed partnership as quickly as Bond could wrap his hands around the whelp’s throat, the boy did nothing but adjust his position in the chair. Bond returned his attention to an increasingly bored-looking M. “I’d rather avoid a repeat, if it’s the same to you.”

“This will hardly be a repeat, Bond.” M looked down and adjusted a few loose papers on his desk, near enough to a dismissal that Bond pushed to his feet. “This is an insurance policy. The assignment is a bit more difficult than you are used to.” Bond snorted mid-shift. He was renown for his ‘difficult’ assignments. M leveled a look at the whelp. “You as well, Agent Holdbrook.” 

The other agent nodded. “I’m well aware.” No showboating or ‘oh, I’ve handled worse’ came forth. He simply folded his hands - long, large, weathered - over his own file on his lap and waited. 

Bond came the closest to an eye roll as his stately upbringing would allow him in polite company. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

 

-)(-

 

There would be a helicopter lifting off in three hours to take them to the aeroplane; from there it would be endless boredom and watered-down drink service until they reached Shanghai. M had stated, with no argument allowed, that there would be no hijinks on this flight. ‘Create a good image for the new generation of agents.’ What a load of rubbish. The SIS would not have gotten to where it is today without the utter professionalism and skills of its agents. Hell, England herself would be in a much rougher state without her agents. How... _ elitist,  _ to write off a little playfulness and relaxation as unacceptable. Elitist and dull. Bond knew he was working himself into a lather, and used the energy instead to plan ways around the new rules. What were rules, after all, but simple red tape to snip away at convenience? He shut his briefcase and snapped up the handle. 

“You aren’t thrilled with this arrangement, are you sir?” 

Bond sucked a breath in through his nose and sighed. The ‘sir’ Holdbrook tacked onto the end of the sentence didn’t sound forced. Points for him, Bond supposed. He turned to look at Holdbrook. “You’re correct. I’m not.”

Holdbrook nodded, serene in the face of Bond’s irritation. “Neither am I, honestly. With any of this.” He waved a lax hand around his head in a very familiar movement. “I’m -”

“New.”

Holdbrook held Bond’s bulldog glare with a level gaze. “Not as new as you may think, I’m afraid. The nature of my usual assignments are less ‘stand out in the open until someone notices and then cause trouble’ and more ‘no one even knows you are here and neither do we’, if you understand.”

Bond grunted. What a quaint way to describe an agent provocateur. “Wetwork, you mean.”

“Of a sort.” Holdbrook took hold of his own briefcase when it became apparent to him that Bond wanted to leave the room. “Give me a rifle and a map, and two miles.”

“Ah. A sniper.” Bond was surprised. Or, rather, surprised wasn’t the right word. Curious. Curious as to why Holdbrook had been seconded to the 00 section. They had a surplus of snipers. What’s one more? His mind strayed to his friend Alec, currently in places redacted. 

“Don’t think for a moment that I don’t know what I’m doing, Agent Bond.” The tone of Holdbrook’s voice halted Bond’s wandering thoughts. He turned around. Holdbrook stood, arms relaxed at his side. His eyes, though, looked out of place on his face. They were the eyes of a predator. “I may be new to this side of the coin, but I’m not along for the ride. I’m here to learn the more nuanced side of trade-craft. I’m told you are the best at what you do, even if your methods are on the wilder side of avant garde. It’s why I requested you, rather than a random senior agent. If we remember that, I believe we will make it out of this mission with both our prides intact.”

Seemed Holdbrook was showing his teeth. Bond stood for a moment longer, tasting the temperature of the room. He kept silent, watching the other man. But Holdbrook had clearly spoken his piece. 

Finally, Bond inclined his head. Holdbrook had requested him, after all. Perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as he feared. “Fair enough.” He turned and walked away, listening to the steady footfalls of the agent behind him. At least the whelp would be able to handle a weapon, unless he was a horrible sniper. But then, he wouldn’t be here if he were, would he?

 

-)(-

 

Their last stop before the short helicopter trip would be Q Branch. The thought eased Bond’s irritation by a large margin. Q Branch was a favourable place to whittle away the time. Not only did he truly enjoy being surrounded by the organised chaos and energy that always infused the basement dwelling population of MI-6, one of his favourite people was currently in house. He smirked to himself. There would be hope for this day yet. He would get to see how Agent Holdbrook held up in a face-off with the head Quartermaster. As they walked down the corridors, he entertained himself with examining Q.

The man was an enigma. He was clearly a nerd of the highest standing; the denizens of the tech and research departments all were. But where his compatriots that Bond has met in the past have been almost painfully reclusive and shy, Q was outgoing and headstrong. The reason he became Q and not a head cyber-intelligence expert was because of his amazing interpersonal skills and ability to control nearly any situation. Bond had seen seasoned agents cower under Q’s direct glare, and timid data specialists held aloft with his praise. He has personally witnessed Q face down an angry and stressed 00 agent with what Bond has come to think of as Q’s own brand of 00 attitude - lack of self-preservation and an unbreakable will. His and Q’s working friendship had begun on just such a meeting; starting innocuous and ending up with Q lying in the remains of a broken computer while holding an Exacto knife to Bond’s throat, Security holding a careful distance as they cackled in glee in each other’s faces. It made one hell of an impression on Bond. 

At times, Bond could swear two distinct men lived under Q’s skin. Q was a highly competent man that held the top range scores in a multitude of weapons he’d designed or altered with his own hand. He kept England utterly swole in safety through his skill at the helm of the most sophisticated cybernetic security system in the world, also designed by him. Bond was no slouch in the smarts department; yet, there were days Q boggled Bond’s mind with his brilliance and sheer competence. It drew Bond to the man, an inevitable pull of gravity. He wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty, both metaphorically and literally. He engineered and constructed, breathing life into technology like some sort of god; and like a god, he destroyed with the same vigor.

Then there were the days that Q clearly was a walking disaster; the poor man worked so much and for so long that he had trouble remembering which day he was in, let alone what time it was. He lost biros and cups of tea the moment he set them down. On bad days, it was cigarette packets and Red Bull cans. He’d stare off into space for a moment, then leap across the room as if someone lit a firecracker under his arse, mouth going a mile a minute with observations, critiques and curses when something didn't go as planned.

And one of the things that drove Bond batty about Q was his...well, one could call it style, but Bond sure wouldn’t. It irritated him how Q dressed himself. The man  could easily turn himself out in Gucci for a meeting or a corporate luncheon and look damn sharp. But does he dress like that all the time, as one should if they cared at all about their appearance? Fuck no. It frustrated Bond that Q’d rather roll into work looking like a homeless man, with bed head and in Converse and a tie stained with mustard from a hastily eaten sausage roll half the time. The other half, there wasn't even a tie. On one memorable occasion, there’d been pyjamas, which was a situation that put paid to the claim he’d made the day they met. The answer to Bond’s unspoken question was  _ a lot of damage _ . 

Perhaps competence and style didn’t go hand in hand, but Bond really had expected more class from a man that revealed that his ugly brown cardigan had cost more than Bond’s entire casual suit. A sausage, really? At least it could have been salmon roe or something without a plebeian condiment. Perhaps a dinner date would show Q’s true colours; Bond had sincere hopes that Q would turn out to be as eloquent and daring as his attitude would lead others to believe. 

If he was honest with himself, Bond would have to say that his… obsession with Q was turning into a purely platonic crush. He enjoyed spending time around Q, so much so that he’d make time in his day to wander down to Q Branch; sometimes to engage in banter that was so much different than anything in his world, sometimes just to sit and listen to Q work - as long as the work wasn’t under OPSPEC, of course. Not everything was under his jurisdiction. He was simply a weapon, after all. Q was not. And that intrigued and excited Bond.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold of Q Branch’s chaotic bullpen, he began a favourite game: ‘Bait the Quartermaster’. “Is there mustard on it today?” Technicians and interns scattered, and his smile grew.

He only had to wait a moment for the return. “While I appreciate the gesture, Agent, I really didn’t need another bloody tie. The button-down looked fine without it. Pop a button or two, and everyone goes gaga over my collarbones. Quite bolstering for a nerd.” Q’s head popped up over a desk covered in the guts of an unfortunate computer. Bond narrowed his eyes. It could be a bomb. Then Q tossed a wrench into the mess, and Bond figured it was a computer. Maybe. Hard to tell, with the way Q got his hands on absolutely everything. “Will you ever let that rest?”

“As long as you eat horrible food, I will comment on your proclivity to wearing it.”

“A sausage roll is amazing, you oaf!”

“Not if it comes from a vending machine.”

“It came from a ven _ dor _ . A street vendor, I’m sure you’ve heard of them, you and Alec ate enough at them in Tokyo.”

Bond raised his brow, and Q growled at him. “You’re twelve,” was Bond’s jovial parting shot, and Q flipped him off. “Classy.”

“Classist. You honestly expect the entire world to be able to eat the finest of cuisines at the finest of restaurants with a vacant darling on our elbows. How’s your latest, by the way? Still figuring out how to use the soda machine?” The quip was delivered over Q’s shoulder as he moved up the aisle towards his workstation. 

Bond blinked;  _ well, then _ .  With a quick jerk of his head at the whelp, Bond and Holdbrook followed at a more sedate pace as Q prattled on. 

“I’d show her how, but she seemed determined to do it herself. At the end, there, I was starting to root for the poor lass. I didn’t have the heart to tell her the notes wouldn’t fit into the card reader no matter how crisp they were. ” That startled a bark of laughter out of Bond, and he turned to catch a glimpse of Holdbrook’s grinning face. The whelp’s eyes were warm and crinkled, and Bond cocked his head. Either he’d met Q before - impossible, since Q strictly worked with 00 agents - or he was thoroughly enjoying the banter. He decided on the latter as Q, as always, turned the conversation to work. “Anyway, you are going to China, are you not?” 

“We are,” Holdbrook replied, without even batting an eye at a stranger invention taking up the free space on Q’s personal worktable. Bond, on the other hand, couldn’t help but reach out and brush the silver coating on the orb. “What do you have for us?”

“James, that bites, don’t touch.” Bond jerked his hand back as Q peered over his glasses at Holdbrook. “You look new. Who are you, then?”

Holdbrook’s jaw dropped open as he rolled his eyes. “My god, I’ve been here since ‘10! Six years and change. And I’m suddenly  _ new _ .”

The magic Bond had been waiting for since walking through the doors happened. Q’s eyes sharpened and darkened, something that still sent shivers up Bond’s spine. His shoulders rolled back as his spine straightened. His six foot solid frame became a wall. The transformation always thrilled Bond, and his mood lightened further. Q leveled the glare on Holdbrook. “I haven’t seen you here before, Agent. So as far as I’m concerned, you are. Name, please.” No theatrics, and certainly no ‘well, I’m an executive, so you will listen to me’. The agents may be alpha dogs but Q was king of his domain - and his domain was the entire world. 

“Holdbrook, sir.” There was the smirk Bond had been expecting, infinitesimal as it was. But it was there. Bond could practically read the whelp’s mind, and he smirked himself.  _ Perfect. He thinks he’s in control here. Perhaps Q will pay for dinner, since I’ve brought him a shiny new toy to break. He’s definitely a cocky one. Q will enjoy this as much as putting me on my ass once.  _

“Holdbrook. Hmm.” Then Q waved his hand around his head, and Bond realised it was the same as Holdbrook’s gesture earlier. That struck him as an odd common feature to have. “Come over here so I can sleep tonight knowing you won’t shoot your foot off with this.” He waves Holdbrook over to an alcove cordoned off with sliding panels. “Since you’re new to the programme, you haven’t met my weapons. This particular pistol has a biometric reader as well as an internal safety. Preferably, we’d like the gun to stay in your hands, but since it’s not a perfect world and you agents like to lose your toys, we needed a way to ensure at least  _ this  _ toy couldn’t be used against you. Now, it’s simple, really. If it’s in your hands, it will fire. If it is not, then whomever is holding it will get quite the nasty surprise. I’m quite proud of this advance in technology.”

“Of course you are,” Bond said. “You thought of it yourself, after all.”

“Yes, quite.” Q spared him a small smile and an odd head-tilt. Bond internally winced.  _ Am I really that obvious?  _ “As I was saying, it’s biometric, so we need your personal palm signature in the system. Thankfully, we only need it once. It’s akin to a fingerprint. I’d suggest not getting extensive scarring on your hands, but that should be obvious.” Q narrowed his eyes and his smile turned wolfish. “Also avoid getting your hand cut off.”

“I’ll endeavour not to.” Holdbrook suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“You’d think it’d be easy, but we here in the Division tend to see all sorts. Good thing prosthetic tech has been progressing at a magnificent rate. Ah,” Q picked up a cord, “I was looking for this all night! Of course it’d be right where I left it. Anyways, where was I?”

“All...night?” Bond folded his arms across his chest. “Quartermaster.”

“Not all of us need sleep, Agent Bond.” Q grinned. “Some of us are robots.” 

Holdbrook’s discomforted expression deepened. Bond could have leapt in joy. Q shook his head. “Anyway, get over here. I need to enter your palm print. Put your hand in this.” He gestured at a strange cross between a scanner and the thing that women put their nails into to harden the polish or something. 

“Uh.” Holdbrook stepped up, then paused. 

“Oh, for the love of - it’s not going to bite, Agent!” Q fiddled with the cord in his hand. “Just do it.” Holdbrook complied, and the monitor next to the scanner beeped twice. “There, all done. Was that so hard? Now come around the partition and meet your gun. This part isn’t as easy, for reasons I can’t even fathom.”

Both men followed, and Q stared at Bond. “Did you need something, 007?”

“I’m his partner for this assignment.”  _ More like he’s  _ my _ partner, damn it all.  _

Q must have been able to read his face, because he sighed in his ‘God please play nice with others’ way. “Perfect. They assigned the newbie to you, of all people. God save us all. You run this one off, I'll taser you.” He shook his head.

Bond grinned. “You'd have to get close to me. I bite.”

“You say that like I'm worried about you biting me. I have shotgun Taser rounds.”

“Fair enough.”

The table around the partition had another monitor setup, though this time it was hooked to a tower and a pistol grip mock up. Familiar with his own P226, Bond knew where to look for the new material on the grip. “Now, I haven’t assembled your gun yet, Agent Holdbrook. What you are looking at is the grip assembly. It’s simple,” He continued to explain as he powered on the monitor and began the programme with a few quick keystrokes. “All I need you to do is hold it like you would normally hold your pistol.”

Holdbrook’s cocky smirk returned. “I won’t find that difficult, Quartermaster.”

Q snorted. “Oh, please. You all say that, and then I can’t get a good reading because you’re holding it like a pussy. Pick it up and hold it.” Holdbrook did as he was instructed, and after a moment the computer beeped angrily. 

Bond grinned. 

Q groaned. “Tell me you don’t rub one out with a grip like that, no wonder you seem a bit like you’ve a stick up your ass. Hold it proper, Agent! You’re not going to break it. Annabel in the produce section at Sainsbury’s has a better grip than you, and she’s ninety. I’m sure her husband is quite pleased with her.” Bond snorted, and Holdbrook shot him a dour glare and tightened his grip, his hand sliding into place with ease. The computer let out two beeps, and Q sighed. “There, see? Was that so hard? Give me ten minutes, and it’ll only respond to your hand. So don’t hand off the gun to Bond if he throws his at another alligator.”

Bond groaned good-naturedly. “It was a Komodo dragon!”

“And I like mustard, we both have our vices. Yours seems to be lizards because I’m not talking about Shanghai, I’m talking about Maui. Get your missions straight, or at least fill out an after-action once in a while.”

“What does it matter to you?”

“I have to requisition the bloody weapons for you Neanderthals to destroy, so it matters greatly when I can explain what happened to them without sounding like I’m making it all up. I have to find another radio, since 004 seems to have absconded with hers early. It’ll only take a moment.” Q flitted off. 

Holdbrook sighed. “Well, that was a learning experience.”

“Just wait until you piss him off. He’s small, but he packs quite the left hook.”

Holdbrook grimaced, and Bond wondered what that was about. “Good to know.”

 

-)(-

 

Six hours into a fourteen hour flight seemed to be as good a time as any to start getting into his charge’s head, Bond thought. Of course, to begin with, he must stop thinking of Agent Holdbrook as his ‘charge’, or even ‘the whelp’. After all, the man had a designation already. 

He’d already gone through the training, when he started eight years ago. He’d gotten his two assassinations. He’d kept up with the yearly exams to retain his status in the 00 programme. Of course, all that was straight from M while the man was attempting to get Bond on board with this assignment; information on Holdbrook was blocked, even to Bond’s astronomical security clearances. So if he was already a 00 agent, even a young one, then why wasn’t he working in the programme already? Did SIS or M have him on other operations? Was he involved in other parts of the world in a less-than-official capacity? And why? Why put off the real-world training until now? He poked at the tablet a little more, just to look busy, then sighed and dropped his head against the padded seat. Time to be friendly, he supposed. “So.”

Across the wide aisle of first class, Agent Holdbrook looked up from his paperback. “Hm?”

Bond looked at him. “Do you have another name? Other than Holdbrook.”

“Eoin.” The name rolled off Holdbrook’s tongue. 

“Eoin. Eoin Holdbrook.” He hummed. “Irish?”

“Somewhere along the line of my ancestors, I’m sure there’s someone covered in Celtic designs bitching about the Normans.” Holdbrook’s voice carried flatly through the canned air. “I don’t hold too much to history, though.”

“Oh?” Bond’s own Scottish history was lost to the annals of time forgotten, accidental and deliberately so. Ancestral lands never held much for him. He was a worldly creature from the start. 

“Born and raised smack in the middle of London. I was named as an afterthought, a nod to some grandfather picked out of the family books.” Holdbrook waved his hand. Damn it all, he even used the gesture the same way Q did. “I’m surprised my name has drawn you out, James.”

“I like to talk about things that interest me.”

“A few hours ago, you wanted to strangle me.”

Bond smirked. “Picked up on that, huh?”

“Hard not to. When not on assignment, you don’t bother to hide your emotions.” Holdbrook returned the smirk. “I’ve heard quite a lot about you, Bond.”

“James.” Bond shifted in his seat. “If we are going to be working together, we may as well be civil to each other.”

“As you wish, James.” 

Bond couldn’t help but wonder. “What, exactly, have you heard about me?”

“Oh, just the general commotion that surrounds senior agents.” Holdbrook sighed. “Notoriously hard to work with, lone wolf, holds people at arm’s length, despises routine, rule breaker, brooks no idiocy, so on ad nauseam. Basically a rap sheet of supposed failed partnerships.” Bond grunted, but Holdbrook continued. “It's all bullshit, but there you have it.”

“Really?” Bond found himself interested. "Why is it bullshit if it's true?"

"Because no one bothers to understand the reason behind it. If they were to do so, I'm sure your life would be much easier."

"Enlighten me, then." Not just interested, but  _very_ much so. Bond relaxed into his seat. 

Eoin sighed. “Yes, you are a lone wolf, but you consistently work assignments where another agent would be detrimental. You are absolutely exceptional at wiggling into cracks in people’s walls, gleaning information with your way of words. You see the worst of people on a regular basis, so holding yourself separate of them is tantamount to keeping your working mind clear. You hold yourself accountable for every bit of the mission, no matter how it goes. If you were to have a partner, that would carry over to them; you will hold yourself accountable, even if it were their fuck-up. You are driven to success, by any means necessary. Thus, the rule-breaking. Because of your personal experience and the difficulty of the assignments you take on, you don’t stand for incompetency; it’s because you’ve seen what it can do, and you sincerely do not want to see people die because of it. You see, people believe you are sociopathic - not even a thing anymore, that's how much bullshit this is - or at the least that you don’t care about others.” Holdbrook paused, and Bond let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. “They are wrong. You are quite the opposite. Not just because it’d be impossible to do what you do if you didn't care, which is so obvious it makes my brain hurt thinking people don't realise it; it’s because you care  _ so much. _ You love people. You just don’t love the human condition. You’ll do anything to help others. What you can’t abide by is the insolence, incompetence, and inferior way of thinking of others. It’s not your fault others can’t see past the years of wear and tear that this career has wrought on people like you.”

Bond blinked.  _ Wow. _ He stretched his neck, side to side. He felt flayed open and raw, and suddenly tired. “That’s quite the study of my personality, Eoin.”

Holdbrook held up a finger. “What you did just there is a perfect example of your condition. Hiding your own discomfort to try to read the situation a little more.”

Bond blinked. 

“It comes so naturally, now doesn’t it? You don't even notice you are putting up your shields.” Eoin’s smile held some sadness. Then, he waved his hand around his again. “You see, humans fascinate me, but in a more scientific way. I’ve studied the human condition for years. Since you haven't killed me for that exposition, I think we should halt the conversation here."

"Why?" Really, why? Bond wanted to know more. He was finding that Eoin was... interesting. Nearly as much so as the Quartermaster. He wanted more. 

Eoin chuckled. "We could wear ourselves out talking about the histories of each of our mother countries or psychoanalyze each other until we stab ourselves, or we could entertain ourselves in other ways. I don’t know about you, but dragging out the old family albums to talk about Great Grandfather MacFlannigan or what-have-you seems tedious. I have a much better idea. You’ll love it.”

“Oh?”

Holdbrook raised his hand a little, and the flight attendant sauntered over. A pretty thing, a red mane of hair and luscious hips and breasts filling out her uniform. “Say, are you the only one up here tonight, my dear?” Bond looked on in rising interest as Holdbrook ran first fingers, then the palm of his hand, over her side from rib cage to thigh. She responded that no, her partner had gone down for more alcohol. Holdbrook’s sly grin hid everything that made him dangerous in any way. “Of course. Well, the more the merrier, they say. You know, it’s going to be a long flight...Deidre? Is that how you pronounce your name? So lovely. A long flight, like I said. Why don’t you sit down, take a rest. It’s just us up here, I’m sure my partner won’t mind a bit. Would you, Mr. Sterling?”

Bond couldn’t believe his bloody luck. Not only was he not going to get in trouble for breaking the rules, Holdbrook was also saving the tall brunette for him. But formality still stood. “I don’t mind. But I believe our boss said no one is getting initiated into the Mile High Club on this flight?”

“He did, yes.” Holdbrook pulled Deidre down onto his lap, making her laugh. He gave her a quick look to make sure she was completely willing, then locked eyes with Bond. “But that rule stands for those who aren’t already members, correct?”

Bond found himself starting to tolerate this one a little more. He offered a smile of his own. “Well played.”

“Loopholes, Sterling. Always find the loopholes.”

 

-)(-

 

Between objectives, traveling could be necessary. Sometimes, it didn’t go well. Any number of things happened on the roadway, as Bond well knew. But this was a new one. He’d rather never have to limp a car to a petrol station in the middle of the night again, but the bad experience gave rise to a good one. He got to see a new side of Holdbrook. 

“Well, this is bloody glamorous,” Eoin muttered. Thankfully the soup can had a pull-ring; he had to do nothing more strenuous than dig the contents out with a travel spoon and shove the bowl into the microwave. “Travel the world! Meet beautiful women! Play high-stakes poker! Eat shitty soup in a motorway service station because your fucking Audi runs out of petrol! They never mentioned this in the selection brochure.”

Bond grinned at Eoin’s grumbling and picked at his bag of crisps. “Not everything in our lives is high society.” He found he enjoyed the easy banter Eoin was able to maintain. It reminded Bond of Q, in a way. But whereas Q’s banter had the feeling one was talking to a startled ferret, Holdbrook was more of a disgruntled badger after wintering in a carpark.

“Hrmph. I spent enough years in the sandbox. I deserve better than this.”

“You’ll get better, I assure you.” Bond smiled at him. “Food’s alright, though?”

“Better than MREs, at any rate.” Eoin glanced at the ingredients label. “Maybe.”

“You were the one that said he was famished.”

“Shut up.”

James laughed and popped another prawn crisp into his mouth.

 

-)(-

 

“This is more like it.” 

Eoin was resplendent in dove grey bespoke Tom Ford, a martini in his off hand and a charming smile on his lips. His blue eyes sparkled in the lights as he read the room. Bond felt something rolling in his gut that knocked him sideways a bit. He’d never felt a true attraction, per say, to men. The line he fed the hated Silva was just that - a line. And what he felt for Q wasn’t in any way sexual. But watching Eoin work the crowds and apply the tools of their chosen trade woke something warm and curling inside himself, something he didn’t want to quench with any previous experience. It wasn’t often he could have something new to him. He stepped closer to Eoin, bending close to his ear while keeping an eye on the crowd. 

“Do you see him?”

Eoin followed his sightline. “Oh. Smooth. That rat bastard’s smooth. Openly talking to a gun runner, what’s that? Unless this is what the gala is all about?”

“Probably.”

“Well, that makes this easier, doesn’t it?”

Bond smirked. “You think, perhaps, you’d like first crack? Since this is your show and all.”

Eoin’s eyes narrowed, and Bond’s mouth went dry as his mind attributed the word ‘adorable’ to the crow’s feet gathered at Eoin’s temple.  _ What?  _ Then he found himself struck dumb by the slice of blue that Eoin aimed his way. “I’d like that, yes. I have an idea of how I’d like to play this. I trust you know what to do with his flavour of the week?”

“Of course.” James found his equilibrium once more. Their intel had hinted at the possibility Grobel would be amenable to the company of men as well as women. Bond had wondered how he’d personally play that angle if it came to it. As he watched Eoin weave through the throngs of people, he didn’t have to wonder anymore. Eoin had it in hand - literally, as he weaved his way seamlessly into Grobel’s conversation with the weapons dealer, a hand on Grobel’s arm and a slick ‘I know what you want’ smile on his face. 

Now James could focus his attention on the other half of the scenario. He spotted her at the bar, and he made his way to her, already reading her body language and coming up with a plan. Eoin was completely right. He was an expert of manipulation.

 

-)(-

 

Back in the hotel room, James sat at the desk, laptop open as he reviewed the information Eoin had slipped out of Grobel’s computer and compiled it with the information he'd teased out of the mistress. He could hear the shower running in the en suite, a nice background noise to the work he was engaged in. Everyone assumed spy work was all guns and girls, explosions, fast cars and glory. It wasn’t, not when you got down to the dirty work. More of his time was spent reviewing intelligence than acting on it. It was the game, after all. You need information, or you could be very wrong and very dead. 

The shower turned off, and a minute later the door opened. Habit had James turning around to see who was at his back. 

The sight of Eoin Holdbrook without his armour left him dumbstruck.

The towel Eoin used to dry his hair hid his face. With each sweep of his arms, his whole torso rippled with muscle. His golden tan reached his hips, the trouser line stark along the crest of his hipbone, showing pale Irish skin beneath. A nest of brown curls outlined the heavy weight of his half-full prick, a length that must exhilarate any person Eoin encountered. Heaven knew it thrilled Bond, and he wasn’t even sure why, or  _ how. _

“Like what you see?”

The towel hit the floor, and Bond looked back up into laughing blue eyes. Eoin smirked, waggled his brows a bit, then walked over to where his bedclothes lay on the bed. He stepped into his pyjama bottoms. Bond turned back around, not blushing but not  _ unaffected,  _ either.  _ I have to be imagining this. I must be.  _

“Y’know, our cover for this gala is an young entrepreneur and his sugar daddy.” James jerked his head to stare at Eoin. Eoin stood just feet away, shirtless, with his hands draped over his hips. The bottoms hung low enough to show more than an inch of the enticingly creamy pale skin. The desk lamp’s light played along his defined abdomen and the barely-there scars that staggered up his side. “Nothing’s stopping us from playing up the story.”

James blinked up at him, suddenly dizzy. “You’re kidding me.”

“Hardly.” Eoin’s smile widened, then soured a little as he ran his hands over his hips. “I showered, but I can’t seem to get the feeling of Grobel’s fuckin’ fingers off me. Never thought it'd feel like I was used, somehow. Oh well. Part of the job, I suppose.” He held out a hand, his face an open book of care and curiosity. “Care to assist me in forgetting that disgusting little man?”

It felt like a dream; to take Eoin’s hand and stand, then draw the man into his arms. He pressed his lips against Eoin’s forehead. “Of course.”  _ In for a penny…  _ He dragged his lips down Eoin’s temple, making sure to leave a kiss at the corner of his left eye. “You must’ve heard things about my exploits for the Queen, but -” He paused, hands flexing on Eoin’s shoulder and hip. “I must admit that I’m unsure of what to do in this scenario.”

“It’s a bit like riding a bike.” Eoin laughed, shrugging against Bond’s clothed chest. James could feel his fingers trailing along the buttons of his shirt, toying with the abalone and slipping between the openings. The tips of those callused fingers left pinpricks of fire along his skin. “You start with training wheels.” He leaned forward and caught James’ mouth in a searing kiss that left him panting. “Come to bed, James Bond.”

Minutes later, James found himself on his back, head thrown back against the expensive down pillows, moans escaping him as Eoin’s lips left heated nips down his rib cage. They’d moved on so quickly from kissing that he knew Eoin was desperate to feel something different than Grobel. 

The feeling of a man above him, giving him pleasure, was strange. Not in a bad way, but still odd. Letting his hands wander and encountering a body much like his own; hard, unyielding muscle and rougher skin, a deep voice groaning instead of high-pitched sighing - it was exciting and intriguing, leading him to use his sense of touch even more than normal. He learned the unfamiliar curve of Eoin’s hip, the strong musculature of his thighs, the movement of his abdominals with his fingers and palms. He pressed eager lips to a heavy collarbone instead of a fragrant neckline; his tongue left a wet trail along the outline of a hard pectoral instead of a pillowy breast. Scent was different, too; as their bodies heated in the bed sheets, soft florals gave way to deep earth, a musk that was undeniably  _ male _ . It was overwhelming in the most breathtaking ways.

Unlike most of James’ encounters, his partner was leading the way; showing him what to do and how to do it with his deep kisses and the undulations of his body.  And when he hesitated, when his mind caught up and gave pause, Eoin would whisper sweet words into his ear and stroke along his side with his fingertips and James would let his worries go once more. He couldn’t believe how quickly he’d given in to the temptation Eoin provided. A week before this - hours, even - he’d scoff at the idea of relations with another man. Even now, he didn’t know how he would reciprocate the affection Eoin showed him.

Eoin had already gained a good sense of when James would disappear into his head. He moved from where he was mouthing at the sensitive skin beneath James’ ribs and sank his teeth into the hard coil of his iliac crest. James yelped and jerked, his head banging against the headboard. His next breath was a gasp as Eoin held the bite, and stars appeared in his vision as blood left his head, gathering into his belly as fire. He fisted his hand into Eoin’s chocolate hair and tugged, pushing up into the bite. “Christ.  _ Christ. _ ” He pushed against Eoin’s head, trying to get him...to get him down… “God!” … to get him down… Eoin’s cheek brushed the head of Bond’s prick, and  _ there we go _ . James’ breath left him in a huff, and he rolled his head up. “Finally.”

Eoin laughed. “Oh, darling. Is that what you want? My mouth around you?”

James looked down, vision hazy. Eoin gazed back with a gleam in his blue eyes; his hands splayed against Bond’s hips, his thumbs bracketed the blond curls surrounding the base of Bond’s ruddy leaking cock. Sensing what was to come, it jerked, bouncing lightly against Eoin’s cheek. James gasped, one sharp inhale that didn’t reach his lungs. 

“Yes, I think you do want that. You want to know what I look like after sucking you, don’t you? How red and swollen my mouth would be after you take it, take  _ me _ ? Want to mess my hair up, maybe even get a little rough? You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Someone who can take what you want to give.”

“Jesus.” Bond grunted around the thick arousal filling his core. “Your  _ mouth. _ ”

“Yes, _my_ _mouth_.” Eoin grinned, somehow predatory and coy at once. Something dangerous. James always did like the dangerous ones. “Maybe you should shut me up. Give my mouth something to do.”

That tripped a trigger in James. He growled, unable to hold back anymore. He gripped Eoin’s hair until the whelp grunted, then slid his other hand down and wrapped his fingers around the thick base of his aching prick. He pressed it hard against Eoin’s face, and Eoin pulled against his grip again to turn his head and mouth along the shaft. This, at least, James knew intimately. A man’s mouth felt no different than a woman’s. In the part of his brain that he’d trained to never turn off no matter the situation, he figured that if he’d been presented with this in the past, he’d have imagined it were a woman doing this most basal and intimate task. He’d have closed his eyes and think of women and England. 

But here, now, he didn’t have to. He didn’t close his eyes, and he sure as hell didn’t think of women. He didn’t even think of England, because he wasn’t doing this for England. He was doing this for himself. 

As Eoin slicked his mouth up and around his prick, James murmured encouragement and endearments when he wasn’t moaning at how good it felt. And it did feel good; better, actually, since instead of long hair brushing his abdomen, he could feel the unfamiliar scrape of facial hair. Another point of reference to remind him that it was a man between his legs and not a woman. The thrill that shot up James’ spine shook a high-pitched keening noise from his throat. Eoin’s lips stretched into a smile, and he hummed against James’ skin. “Feel good?”

“It…” James took a breath. “Feels different. Strange.” Then he scowled, irritated with himself. “I mean -”

“No, don’t do that.” Eoin chuckled. “It’s gonna feel that way. Remember, none of us could run the Tour de France at four.” He stroked James’ hip with one hand and wrapped the other around the base of James’ prick, moving James’ hand out of the way. “Let me.” 

James did as he was told, letting Eoin have his way with his prick. He focused on the sensations, how they folded in on themselves, waxing and waning like the moon. He let the tingle and the fire surround him, let Eoin send him into another plane of feeling. When his orgasm did roll through him, it was gentle; warm waves that took tension with them and left the present of full relaxation. He closed his eyes and sighed, letting Eoin clean him up with the damp towel. When he was done, Eoin tossed the towel off towards the bathroom door and climbed onto the bed, settling next to James. He let out his own sigh and snuggled into James’ shoulder, pressing a kiss to the knot of scarring he found there. 

James blinked, tiredness beginning to overtake him. “Mmm. You didn’t…”

“Oh, I did.” Eoin tipped his head up. “Watching you, feeling you… Seeing you unabashed in your pleasure. I get off on that, I really do.”

James huffed a laugh. “Oh?”

“Twice, in fact.”

That earned him a full laugh. James eased up on one elbow. “It was.” He shook his head. “It was amazing.” He paused, barely a blink. “Thank you.”

“No.” Eoin dropped his head to James’ chest for a moment. “Thank  _ you. _ ” He grunted. “You get some sleep. I’m going to go through that intel myself, see if there’s anything I missed.”

“Have at it. I’m not certain I can move at the moment.”

“I feel my work here is done.” Eoin popped him on the stomach and rolled back out of bed. He didn’t bother to dress before he plopped down on the chair to power on the laptop once more. 

As he drifted off to sleep, buried in sheets as Eoin took over the intel review, James smiled. Yes, it seemed like a dream, but it was a dream he wanted to live in for a little bit longer.

 

-)(-

 

Of course, things couldn’t ever be simple. Bond was having a hard time believing they could be simple anymore. “‘Hardly a repeat,’ M said.” He swallowed as his back hit the brick wall. He palmed the magazine for his Walther, dropped the empty one, and slipped the fresh one in, all in the space of moments. “I don’t imagine that being shot off a bridge is quite the same as being chased by half of China, but I’d have to say that it’s real close.”

“If it makes you feel better, I’ve only got half a clip left.” Beside him, Holdbrook panted. They’d both just ran through the middle of mid-day traffic for a good two miles, after fighting their way out of a trap on the wharf. He looked up at Bond through the thick lenses of the HUD eyeglasses Q’d invented a month prior. “Can’t imagine it’s going to last through the day.”

Bond spared the man a quick grin. “I’d let you borrow mine, but you know what Q said about our guns.”

“Fuck, I’d much rather not lose a hand today, ta.” Holdbrook growled deep in his chest. “Bless Q for his insight. I love these glasses. We’ve got incoming, my six, coming in hot. It’s gonna get a little noisy here.”

Bond looked around. Most of the civilians have already vacated the area, mindful of what could possibly happen when two big  _ gweilo  _ run through their home. He blew a breath out of his nose. “Alright. We can engage them.”

“Aye, Captain.” Holdbrook shot him a sly glance. 

“Child. Alright. Five.” Bond breathed. “Four.”

Holdbrook shifted, getting ready to jump to the far wall.

“Three. Two.” Bond set his feet. “One.”

“Execute,” the ex-Operative murmured as he wrenched himself around the corner, ducking and running fast to the other side. Bond swung around the corner and planted his bleeding shoulder against the wall. As one, they swung up their pistols and fired. 

 

-)(-

 

Another hotel, another city. The pickup they’d stolen sat off the roadside three miles south, rigged to blow if anyone tampered with it. If they didn’t hear any explosions during the night, they would disarm the traps and leave it. 

At the moment, they weren’t worried about the truck. James should be ashamed of how quickly they ended up in bed together, especially since Eoin had been in the middle of sealing the wound in James' shoulder with medical-grade glue. But he wasn't, not in the least. The wound would keep. 

“Jesus,  _ Jesus, James. _ ” Eoin’s eyes fluttered shut as he rocked his hips. The sheen of sweat on his bunched shoulders glistened in the lamplight as he dropped his hands down on James’ chest for support as he rode him. “Fuck.”

James was struck dumb once more at how beautiful Eoin was. He couldn’t get enough of the man; he was a drug, an addiction. He jerked his hips up, bouncing Eoin forward with the force of his thrust. Eoin’s eyes rolled back in his head as he groaned. He couldn’t. He couldn’t put what he felt into words, to give voice to his desires. He tried to show Eoin instead; the steady roll of his hips, the slick slide of his prick into the warmth of Eoin’s body, the roaming hands that now found familiar homes on tanned skin and hard muscle. Just as Eoin had shown him how to love him, James now wanted to show Eoin. 

With each thrust, Eoin’s breath jolted out of him. He tensed and tightened, loosened and relaxed; his hands flexed on James’ chest, leaving red welts where his fingernails dug in. The dual sensations lit a fire in James once more. Eoin gasped, whined - and he was clenching hard around James’ prick, coming in great waves. His come splattered, milky pale, on James’ chest; he cried out, shockingly, in French:  _ Oh dieu, Jamie! S'il vous plaît, continuez!  _

James gathered him in his arms and thrust up into him once, twice more before he let go, his own orgasm rocking through him, a hurricane force this time that left him panting and pressing wet kisses against Eoin’s damp hair. The promises came tumbling out of him mouth, then, heeding neither common sense nor reason. They rolled out in French, English, Russian.  _ You are amazing, you are a wonder, beautiful strong impossible, I adore you, I can’t help it I’m falling for you.  _ He knows it’s a flaw of his, how hard and fast he falls for the ones he ends up loving. Especially the ones he knows he can’t keep. He’ll try, anyway. He’ll try, and he’ll pick up the pieces of his shattered heart when this one, too, leaves.

 

-)(-

 

The computer screen went black in front of Bond. For a breath, he panicked. “Q? What did I just do?”

“Nothing on your end. Security is onto us, I’m afraid. I’ve got what I need.”

A single gunshot - not Holdbrook - rang out in the hall. Bond cursed. “Holdbrook, report.”

Silence.

“14, report.” Q’s voice carried more tension, a frisson snaking through his calm tenor. He wasn’t on the ground, he couldn’t see what was happening. Bond knew how that felt, and didn’t begrudge Q the task. 

“Mate, I’d finish what you are doing in there, we’re going to have company in a few minutes.” Holdbrook bit off the end of his sentence and Bond heard the report of his Walther. He sounded winded. “I’d be a little happier if this gun was bigger, Q. I mean, it’s doing the job, but it feels like a toy.” 

“I’ll take that under advisement, 14.” Q’s voice went back to cool detachment. 

The door opened, and Bond twisted around, the Walther up and tracking. Holdbrook stumbled through, putting his shoulder into the door to slam it shut. “Have you done it,” he muttered, his face pained and pale. 

“Yes.” Bond turned back to the computer and hit a few more keys, willing the screen to light up again in case he’d missed something in the transfer. He yanked the USB out and put a bullet into the tower. The tower made a horrible noise and smoked. Behind him, a heavy weight hit the door. Thrilling. They may have to exit through the window. 

“Was that necessary, 7?” Q didn’t sound pleased. Bond grinned. 

“Why not? They already know we’re here. It’s just a computer.”

“Just a comp -” Q sighed, and Bond looked forward to the hours-long lecture he was going to get when he returned his gun to Q Branch. “Fine. Whatever makes you happy. We have what we need, Agents. Get to the extraction point. I’m sending the directions to your watches now. You have an hour.”

“Why, that’s all the time we need, Q. Thank you for your assistance.” Bond purred, pocketing the equipment and turning. His heart stopped at the sight before him. Holdbrook lay prone in front of the door. Bond went cold as he dropped to his knees next to him, one knee slipping in the warm blood pooling on the floor. “Q. Can we get an extraction at our location?” His voice betrayed none of the deafening turmoil in his brain. 

“No helo can get that close without political repercussions or a heat-seeker through the main engine. You need to get out of the building on your own, Agents.”

The dream is over. Swallowing the anger at fate, Bond said the words he hated. But the words hurt more now than ever. “14 is down.”

“Repeat?” Q said it for the recorder. He never stopped listening. He knew exactly what Bond had said. Bond closed his eyes and opened his mouth, but he couldn’t say it again - 

“Negative, Q, 14 is not down, he’s just resting his fuckin’ eyes for a bit before we scale the side of this shit hole.” Holdbrook’s voice startled and warmed Bond, and he looked back down. Holdbrook’s hand wrapped around Bond’s exposed ankle and squeezed. His skin was cool to the touch but it didn't matter. He was alive. “Sorry, passed out. Happens when you get shot, unfortunately.” He groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, wavering a little. He got standing, then slammed against the wall next to the door.  Bond followed, reaching out to grip his shoulders. 

“Are you going to be alright to do this?”

Holdbrook held his gaze, his eyes bright with pain and anger. “Nothing beats a helicopter crash, Bond. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

 

-)(-

 

The helicopter lit upon the main road right where Q said it would, and Bond pumped the brakes to slow the stolen Murcielago. The wet road and Holdbrook’s wound required the care, and he’ll be damned if he put the supercar into their ride out of China. Holdbrook’s head lolled forward, then straightened as he woke up. “You got our tickets, right?”

Bond laughed. “Of course.” 

“Good, ‘cause I’m in no condition to be driving that bird, and you tend to do loops and other crazy shit that’ll make me ill so you’re in the back seat until I’m good enough to parachute out if you piss me off.” Holdbrook unbuckled the harness and popped the door. “I figure we have three minutes to get on and get airborne. Let’s haul ass.”

Haul ass, they did. They were in the air in two. A medic went to work immediately on Holdbrook while Bond submitted an initial report with Control. Q would be doing the same on his end, after picking his way through the intel they’d just retrieved. As he typed, Bond could hear Holdbrook laughing and cursing, joking his way through the pain. His heart swelled a little more. 

Perhaps Holdbrook would be more amenable to dinner than Q. As far as he knew, the former didn’t eat sausage rolls. 

 

-)(-

 

James stopped pacing the moment someone opened the door but didn’t turn away from the mass-production flower painting on the wall. He knew who it was. She'd texted him to see where he was, then told him she was coming down whether he wanted her to or not. “Is this supposed to be relaxing somehow?”

“What is?” Eve’s soft voice curled around James’ shoulders, a warm blanket against the chill surrounding his soul ever since Eoin went to the surgical theatre. Her hands followed next. 

“This painting.” 

“Doubt it. More aesthetic than anything, I would think.” She sighed against his back. “Have you gone into the office yet to get yourself seen to?”

“What aesthetic are they going for here?” James ignored her. He ignored the very idea of stepping foot in the office and taking one of their precious doctors away from their task of patching Holdbrook up. Nevermind that they had plenty of doctors, and the medics on the helicopter had seen fit to allow them to get all the way to London before surgery. “Tired GP? Upbeat funeral home chic?”

“I think the word you are looking for is ‘bland’.” This voice, James turned around for. What was the Quartermaster doing here? He didn’t normally venture out of his branch, not for this. Unless he was going to give the ‘computers are people too, accept your robot overlords’ speech here. “Though I don’t think IKEA was a very sound choice for the furniture. I think I recognise a Vallentuna.” What James saw stopped him dead in his mental tracks. 

Q had a toddler on his thin hip. 

James wasn’t sure how to process that image. The toddler waved a toy puppy at him, then hid his chubby face in Q’s ribcage. Q’s laugh and subsequent mutter of ‘I’m ticklish, love’ made the process even harder. He still wasn’t sure what to do with Q plus child when a tug on his trousers drew his eyes down. A small girl, older than the toddler, cocked her head, curly brown hair draping over her shoulders. “Hi!” Where did this one come from? 

“Kate, darling.” Q sighed. “Over here. Don’t poke the tiger. Honestly, I'm sorry about this. I didn’t expect you to be here.”

"It's fine?" James was still dealing with the sight before him. He cleared his throat. "It's fine."

“Daaaaaad!” The small girl, whose name was clearly Kate, continued to look up at James. James stared down at her, his brain gathering up processing power to add ‘dad’ to the words Q was called on a daily basis. “His trousers are soft!”

“I do hope so, seeing as they cost the same as the car I drove here in.” Q snapped his fingers. “Over here. What have I told you about touching people without their permission?”

“Will you come over and sit next to me?” Kate smiled up at James, showing tiny white teeth. “We’re waiting for Papa. I want to show him my drawing I did in school! Do you want to see it?” Without a second’s hesitation, she curled her small hand around three of his battered fingers and started tugging. 

James stared at Eve, who had a very similar deer-in-headlights look about her. ‘Help’, he mouthed. She shrugged dramatically and hissed, “I don’t know what to do!”

“Just follow her, Bond. If you don’t, you might get a giraffe drawing to the family jewels. She’s just about that height, and she doesn’t quite understand the concept of brakes. Or not touching strangers, my God. She is actually harmless, really.” Q leaned back in the chair he’d dumped himself into, dropping his head back in the common language of the eternally overworked and underslept. The toddler squirmed into his lap. “And this one likes to use you as a climbing post and scribble lost languages on walls.” He patted the boy on the back once he’d made it, then handed him a cup with a lid snapped on. “Work for your treats, kiddo.” The boy went to work at the lid. “Come make friends with the small creatures, Bond. They generally don’t bite.”

“I’m not worried about the biting,” James muttered, still staring at Kate’s hand wrapped around his fingers.

“Then allow me to pencil you in for a rabies shot when you get your fingers too close to the children in the playcentre on the ground level.” Q snorted. “Those little brats need better guidance. Pretty sure Kelsie’s littlest one is a werewolf of some sort.”

With one last helpless glance at Eve, he acquiesced. He let himself be pulled over to the chair next to Q, then let Kate instruct him how to sit without creasing his ‘soft trousers’. She then dug into the brightly coloured child’s knapsack at Q’s knee. The toddler stopped and stared open-mouthed at him before twisting suddenly to bury his nose into Q’s chest with a squeak. Q shrugged with a careworn smile. James tried to smile back, but the enormity of the situation threatened to smother him. He looked back up at the painting. Boring flowers in a boring vase. Boring beige walls, boring white trim. Boring commercial-upholstered chairs. Decidedly not boring Quartermaster with offspring. Somehow, offspring happened.

Bond looked back to Q, who watched him with clear green eyes that were warm and kind. 

“I really didn’t think you’d be here. When you’d walked into my branch, you looked as though you wanted to kill Eoin. Uh.” Q twitched like he wanted to fidget. Bond swallowed as something clicked in his head. Agents need a reason to come home, to survive. Eoin had one hell of a reason, because he’d walked off the aeroplane under his own power despite exhaustion, a bullet in his side and heavy blood loss, and a concussion. And the children were waiting for ‘Papa’. It wasn’t that large of a leap of logic. 

“It was supposed to be a simple mission.” He wasn’t sure why he was telling Q this. Q’d been in their ear the entire run backing every play, giving them escapes and routes and finally their quarry. _ And he knew Eoin’s name. _

“I’m -” Q had lied when he asked for Eoin’s name, because he knew. He knew already. But he couldn’t bring himself to be angry at Q. Not when there were  _ children _ . Q took a breath and started again. “I couldn’t say anything.”

“Of course not. Don’t worry about it.” Bond looked away, unable to watch the inevitable distance grow between them. Q had lied, but there were children involved. He had to lie. He had to protect them. And now, Bond would move heaven and earth if he needed to protect Q’s secret. But Q knew how important it was not to break an agent's trust, and he'd assume his camaraderie with Bond would be over. That wasn't true, though. Jesus, he didn't want to lose Q’s friendship. Not like this. Not over such a secret.  _ We all have secrets. I would have let you have this one. _

“Look!” He’d been neglecting Kate, it seemed. He glanced down at a battered sheet of paper on his lap. Kate pointed to it, bouncing with pride. “I drew a doggy!”

Bond picked up the creased and half-crumpled picture. If he squinted, turned the paper forty-six degrees to the right, and suddenly turned colorblind, it could be a modern interpretation of a ‘doggy’, yes. He  _ almost _ said it out loud, dosed with his usual amount of sarcastic charm.  _ But she’s a child, I can’t talk like that to a child, it’s not done. You pat children on the head and tell them that they will be a fantastic artist one day _ . 

Beside him, Q snorted. “It’s an ostrich. Look at its legs.” James turned to Q in shock.

“No it’s not!” Kate shrieked, startling James and making him swing his head back around. Eve winced from where she’d taken a seat across from the happy family. Kate snatched the paper out of James’ hands and clamored into his lap. After very nearly getting an elbow to the important bits, he helped her sit proper, her legs dangling over his knees. She shook the paper at Q - her daddy. “It’s a  _ dog.  _ I even drew the  _ nose  _ longer. Not a pug. Besides, it has four legs. Birds have two!”

Q’s grin widened. “I don’t know, baby. Dogs don’t come in teal, do they?”

“Neither do osss…” Kate’s face scrunched up, and she stuck her tongue out. Just like Q would do when he concentrated on a project or screen hard enough. Or Eoin, when he cleaned his gun -  _ Jesus Christ.  _ James watched as she worked out the word. “Ostriches.”

“What color are they, then?” James realised Q wasn't teasing the little girl, but quizzing his daughter about the animal kingdom.

“Black.” Kate thought for a moment. “Black and white! And pink. They have bald legs.”

“Very good!” Q held up his hand, and Kate slapped it with her tiny one. James was helpless against the fist closing around his heart, the knot in his gut at the thought of Eoin losing this. What an idiot, becoming an agent while he’s got a family...and Q. Q works so much. Who is taking care of these two when they are gone? An au pair? A centre? 

He received a handful of cereal in his face for his inattention. He shifted his stare to the toddler in Q’s lap, who seemed to have gotten over his shyness and and had conquered the lid. He stood on Q’s thigh and offered his fistful of cereal again, holding James’ gaze with curious blue eyes. “Cereal. Cheerios.” He nods, his mop of dark brown hair falling over his forehead. “Mmmm.”

Q shifted his son on his lap, probably to restore circulation to his knee. “The artist’s name is Kaitlyn. She’s five years old going on thirty, and has the self-preservation skills of a hungry squirrel. She’ll talk to anyone, really. And she does run across roadways if you aren’t holding her hand. Or hair. We’ve done the hair trick, she won’t go far like that.”

“That’s ‘cos Papa pulls my hair! It hurts!”

“Then get it cut, darling.”

“No!”

“Then he’ll continue using your beautiful hair as a leash.” Q shrugged. “It’s not like he yanks on it. You just run off like a scared puppy. One of these days, you’ll get flattened by a black cab and then we’ll all cry.”

Kate giggled, and Q sighed and turned back to Bond, rubbing the little boy’s hair. “This little hermit crab’s name is Damien. I think he fancies you. He doesn’t normally feed strangers.” Q’s face turned strangely sharp. James had never seen this look yet; a studying look where Q’s brows lower and his eyes narrow, but not as harshly as when he’s admonishing any number of agents for equipment lost, destroyed, stolen or otherwise not on their person. “You haven’t eaten since you returned.” 

James nodded. He might not have recognized the look, but he knew that dissatisfied voice.  _ Dear Lord, he’s  _ judging  _ me. That’s a judging look. _ “No time.” No need to explain why he needed to be here, damn it. Or maybe there was. He  _had_ slept with Eoin, quite a bit. Son of a bitch. Usually, when he slept with married ones, he didn't meet the other half. He didn't  _know_ and  _respect_ and fucking  _care for the other fucking half._

“Eh.” Q shrugged, and judgment disappeared into exhaustion. “Kid’s got a nose for peaky. He’s constantly trying to feed me anything and everything he’s eating.” 

“Mmm!” Damien stuck his bottom lip out and tapped his sticky fist against James’ cheek. “Mmm.”

James, fighting to keep the turmoil inside him from boiling over, didn't fight the smile tugging at his lips. “He’s determined.”

“That he is.” Q smiled. “Might want to hold out your hand, or he’ll start to force-feed you. That’s never a good idea, by the way. He’ll pick anything off the floors. I caught him trying to give Pork a fruit ice that’d been rolled in cat hair.”

“Ah.” James wondered who Pork was. Probably one of the cats, but for the life of him he couldn’t understand why someone would call a cat such a preposterous name.

The door opened again. A tween-aged girl walked through, a car seat slung over one arm and a brightly coloured carry-all braced against her side. A darker knapsack hung from her other arm. She bumped the door shut with the knapsack and all but collapsed in the nearest chair, a mirror image of Q. James wondered what other father decided being an agent would be a good idea, then wondered where the girl’s mother was. Or if she were the mother, which was a horrible prospect. No agent here was the girl’s age. The car seat hit the floor with a muted thunk, making the infant inside gurgle and kick at the blankets covering it. James’ mental upchucking of possible scenarios for the new arrivals skid to a halt when the girl sighed, “Dad, seriously. Next time, don’t make me cab it with Lizzie. She’s obsessed with screaming when she rediscovers her toes. While delightful, it’s driving me crazy.” 

Q nodded. “I cabbed it all the time with you, and you were just as bad when you discovered the shiny lights outside. Welcome to being a parent, love. Remember this when you are discovering sex, and always use protection.”

“ _ Dad! _ ” The older girl groaned, as Kate hissed, “Eww.”

_What the fuck is going on here?_ James felt as if he’d stepped into the Twilight Zone. An older child, calling Q ‘dad’. "They just keep coming..."

Eve stared at him, then Q. Then the new arrivals. Then Q again. “Just how old are you, Q?” She sounded as disoriented and shocked as James felt. 

“Oh?” Q looked up. Damien leaned further over and pushed a single Cheerio into James’ mouth. Ah. Force-feeding. James pushed the Cheerio out with his tongue, and Damien giggled. “Uh. Hm. I don’t exactly…”

“Aww, Dad’s losing his memory in his old age,” the new arrival said, a smirk curling her lips. Q glared at her, making her roll her eyes. “You don’t even remember your birthday, old man?”

“Addison. I’ve better things to remember than an arbitrary event that happens every year whether I want it to or not. And I’m not old. I’m  _ ancient. _ ”

“Ugh. It’s not that bad.”

“I’m a stone.”

“You’re thirty-three. Most stones aren’t that young. Besides, think of the lovely gifts you received!” Addison -  _ such a lovely name,  _ James thought distractedly - smiled as she rooted around her bag for a tablet and headphones. “You got a hand-built rifle scope from Papa on the day, which resulted in a disgusting amount of snogging in the kitchen and you burnt Damien's eggs.” Q snorted, and even James had to smile again. “You got a sympathy card from Peter from Texas - you do remember him, right?” With a giggle at the more frustrated glare from Q, she continued on with a list of his presents. “Two gag gifts from the Jenkins that you tossed in the bin the next day, and a bottle of wine from Mrs. Majumdar last week. Nothing from Grams or Gramps because they still hate you for having a more successful life.”

Q nodded. “Clearly. Couldn’t even be arsed to send a card last year, either. I’m throwing them into a home the moment I can, just you see.” He looked smug. 

“Oh!” Addison looked up from her tablet. “Also, Opa called the house this morning and left a scathing message about how you are abandoning your children and how you are horrible parents and going to Hell because you’re gay and still sleeping with women to spread your seed.”

Three jaws dropped as one.

“How unsavory of my so-called 'parents' to leave such messages where my children can hear them. Besides, it’s all lies. We are bisexual. That means that we like men and women, Kate.” Q sounded...miffed. Actually, honestly miffed. James stared at him, stunned. Damien got another Cheerio pushed past James’ lips. Q patted Damien's arm. “Dee. Darling, I don’t think Mr. Bond wants cereal.” He pulled Damien back by his waist. “Can I have one?” He got a fistful shoved into his palm, and looked ridiculously happy while fake-eating five bits of cereal. “Mmm, thank you! So crunchy. Very good. How about we save some for Papa when he wakes up, yes?”

“PAPA!” Damien screeched, clamoring down to the carpet. He spared a glance for the bewildered agents, then began digging through the carry-all Addison had at her feet. “Bottle, bottle bottle. Baby bottle.” 

“Thirty-three.” James spat out the Cheerio. “Older than I’d assumed.”

“We all know what assumptions make of people. I like people to think I’m a freshie just out of Uni. Makes them underestimate me.”

“Then what are you, if not that?” Eve accepted the empty bottle Damien handed her. “Thank you, love.” Damien squealed and dove headfirst into Addison’s legging-clad knees.

“Lots of things.” Q offered a tired shrug. “A freshie? Not one of them.”

“Daddy?” Kate, who’d been very content to sit quietly on James’ lap after the teal dog situation had been straightened out, reached out for Q’s hand. “Do Oma and Opa not like us?”

“Oh, honey.” Q’s face softened, somehow gaining years with the creases that appeared around his eyes. “They like you kids just fine, not to worry.”

“But what about you and Papa?”

James decided that he could never meet Q's parents, lest murder be committed. He could not abide the sharp slice of pain and deep-seated anger that flashed through Q’s eyes. He felt his own anger return. “It is a very long story, and one that you will hear when you are older and we can sit you down and explain. Just know that your papa and I love each other very much, and we always will.”

“Okay.” Kate sounded sad and unconvinced. 

Across the aisle, Addison looked on with an apology in her eyes. Q waved it away and pulled Kate off James’ lap to bundle her into his arms, laying her head on his chest. “No worries, Addy. You didn’t think it’d bother her. It doesn’t bother us, now does it?”  _ Like hell it doesn’t. _ James sealed that feeling up in its own little box and fisted his sore hands. Q slid his eyes to him. “And as to your earlier statement, I was there. I was there through the whole thing. Yes, it was supposed to be simple, but it turned out not to be, and you both came home in one piece.” His lips twisted. “More or less.” 

James felt the earlier pang of guilt sweep over his confusion of Q plus four children, mortgage and two cats. Boyfriend? Husband? Live-in? Current shag, seeing how calm Q seemed to be about Eoin being in surgery? No, the children call Eoin ‘papa’. Confusion, guilt, and a healthy dose of irritability due to his own injuries and said emotions rolling around his aching skull. And now anger for a family he hadn’t even known existed ten minutes earlier. “How - you lied. Somehow, you lied. You’ve been lying this whole time.”

Q sagged in his seat, and James could see the thoughts going through his head. “For a reason.”

Bond shakes his head and rested a hand on Q’s arm. “Yes, I know. That isn’t a problem.” He felt Q bolster himself, barely a twitch in his arm as he surely realised that James wasn't going to cut him off. “But I don't think I understand what is happening here. You clearly care for Eoin; how could you just stand by and listen to it? That would drive me batty, hearing my heart dying over -” He couldn't finish the sentence; it was much too close to his own truth. He shook his head and moved on past the ache in his heart and head. “And now you’re here, and you act as though it’s all fine.”

“Because it is.” Q's arm tensed. “Eoin is only having surgery to make sure he’s not going to keel over in a week. You’ve had it yourself.” Q huffed. 

“Q -” Bond wasn’t sure what he wanted to say. Apology? Angry statement? Dismissal of what he’d come to consider a friend? And what of Eoin, someone he’d become very invested in? Now he finds Eoin in a committed and clearly happy relationship. “Married?”

“Yes. We are married. Have been for quite a while...I’m sorry, James.” Q ruffled Kate’s hair. “Listen. This isn’t our first show. We’ve done this before, in another life. We signed on to protect England and her holdings in every way we can.” A different emotion ghosted over Q’s features, dark and stormy. “We also signed on to this while planning a family and a life outside of our careers. Every hurdle, every gaping chasm, every lava flow and live wire, we’ve jumped it. Inconsiderate family, hateful and rude comments, judgment over our decisions, injuries, near-death experiences and a tankful of fish that was probably the worst experience of my life -” James had to wonder at that, as Q paused “- we’ve overcome. I hate to say this, but this isn’t the first time we’ve been in a waiting room as a family, and it certainly won’t be the last.”

“You are both idiots,” James muttered.

“I know.” Q sighed. “But we are still here.”

Eve nodded and looked down as Damien pushed the infant’s blanket onto her lap, along with a packet of formula and a bottle of water. “Dear, what I am to do with this?”

“Mmmm bottle. Baby bottle.” Damien smiled up at her brightly. “Mmmm!” He pulled at her hands. 

“He wants you to fill the bottle with warm water from the bubbler, Moneypenny.” Q moved, barely rocking himself and Kate. The movement was instinct, James could tell. “Use the hot lever, then fill it with cool water until it’s warm on the inside of your arm. Dee, she doesn’t need the bottled water, that’s only if we have a microwave.”

Damien dropped the bottled water back into the bag and patted the kicking infant on the belly. “Mmmm, baby. Izzy likes cereal.”

The infant gurgled and kicked some more. James figured he had a concussion or something, because the urge to go over and pick up the tiny creature was becoming overwhelming.

“Oh, go over and unclip her, Bond, before you break something.”

“No.” Even as he said it, he got to his feet. “I don’t do children.”

“You aren’t doing children.” Q kept rocking. Front, back. Front, back. “You are holding a child for a bit, is all.”

Lizzie let out a coo, and James turned back to the car-seat. He knelt down and stared. He couldn’t help it. Such a tiny thing, bundled in a onesie and blankets, a gummy grin scrunching her little face. She smelled like warm milk and powder. Her watery blue eyes focused on him, and she cooed again. James reached into the warmth of fleece and cotton and soft baby, unbuckling the clips and lifting the harness out of the way. Sensing her freedom, Lizzie begun to wiggle and flail, letting out a squawk-coo combination that made both Q and Addison laugh. James looked up, and Addison slipped out of the chair.    


“Here, let me.”

“No, Addy, let the grown man figure it out himself.” Q’s tone made James smirk. He sounded like the voice in his ear, scolding him for crashing yet another expensive car into whatever waterway he was near that week. 

Addison knelt down anyway, and flipped her hand through her curly hair to get it out of her face. Bond stared at her.  _ Just like Eoin’s and Q’s hand flip. Dear God _ . “Support her head and buttocks as you scoop her out, or she’ll toss herself onto the floor.” 

James did as instructed, cradling Lizzy to his chest immediately as he straightened to his full height. Every worn-out muscle in his back and sides and legs protested the extra weight, and his broken ribs weren’t happy either. But he’ll be damned if he let it show. 

“How injured are you, Bond?”

Of course Q would notice. James grimaced. “It’ll keep.”

“Sure it will. But while you are holding my youngest, I’d prefer you stay on your feet. If you can’t manage that, plant your ass on the floor.”

James carefully folded himself onto the floor, Lizzie still against his chest. Her head rested just over his heart, and her tiny hand fisted into his dress shirt. Her excitement over being picked up by someone new calmed, and she cooed and muttered quietly into his pectoral. Eve finished her preparation of the bottle and walked over, balancing on her stilettos as she knelt down in front of James. Instead of handing the infant over, James reached for the bottle. He was not sure where the instinct was coming from, to move Lizzy until she lay back in the crook of his arm and set the nipple against her little lips. She knew what to do from there, latching on with a whimper and sucking away at her dinner. Something broke loose in his chest then, and he whispered, “I’m sorry.” Eve rested her hand on his shoulder, and he said it again. 

“It’s alright, James.” Q had come over, and was now seated next to him, Kate still wrapped up against him. He pulled the blanket over her. “It’ll be alright. Eoin will be fine, and so will we. And so will you.”

“I’m sorry,” James whispered again. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is a story of some magnitude, encompassing a great number of topics. I will add tags as they come up. This is one of many parts I want to be able to tell about James, Q, and Eoin. Allow for time and real life, since I have not written or posted in a very long time. If you like this, please stick with it and me.
> 
> Thank you so much for everything. xoxoxo, monster.


End file.
